


Fill the Places I Can’t Reach

by cattyk8



Series: Love Doesn't Always Require Attachment [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Biology, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne Has Feelings, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack and Smut, Crackporn, Detached Penis, Frottage, Gift Fic, Hand Jobs, I am so sorry, Kryptonian Biology, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Protective Clark Kent, So So So Sorry, Xenobiology, but also there are feelings, detached dicks, his dicks are also protective if not more so, inspired by Detachment, penile detachment, sentient penis, yes all at the same time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22360009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattyk8/pseuds/cattyk8
Summary: Five times Batman used Superman’s detached penises for nonstandard purposes, and one time they used him.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: Love Doesn't Always Require Attachment [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609399
Comments: 43
Kudos: 234





	Fill the Places I Can’t Reach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bonehandledknife (ladywinter)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladywinter/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Detachment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19403224) by [bonehandledknife (ladywinter)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladywinter/pseuds/bonehandledknife). 
  * Inspired by [Limitless Undying Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19642900) by [cattyk8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattyk8/pseuds/cattyk8). 



> This is a very belated surprise holiday present for [bonehandledknife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladywinter/pseuds/bonehandledknife), author of the amazing fic _[Detachment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19403224)_. If you’ve not read that yet, this will make no sense to you, so please do so at the earliest opportunity. Otherwise, I suspect you will be WTFing all over this.
> 
> Then again, even if you have read it, you may still be WTFing all over this.
> 
> However, if you still want to read this without reading "Detachment," here is what you need to know: Clark is Kryptonian. Kryptonian physiology evolved in such a manner that, to increase the efficiency of heeding the biological imperative, their cocks detach from their bodies and go in search of ideal mates. Normally, these cocks kind of fade away after the Origin Body is united with their Chosen. However, normally, Kryptonians live under a red sun, can't fly, and don't shoot lasers out of their eyes. Suffice it to say, there is nothing normal about Superman. Or his detached genitalia.

In all his considerations and imaginings for what might become of his life—a must, for someone as obsessed with contingency plans as Bruce—he would never have thought he would be contemplating the love language of detached, sentient penises.

And yet here he is.

And while their very pleasurable dealings with each other since the day he’d met the first of the flying penises might indicate their primary love language would be touch, he’s found this is not the case. 

Perhaps it’s because the penises detached from none other than Superman, who is also Clark Kent, the love of his life.

No, Bruce decides, just like Clark, the penises speak the language of Quality Time, with a secondary language of Acts of Service. And they are concerned with three things, by order of priority: keeping him safe, getting time with him, and pleasuring him.

And so it turns out there are quite a lot of things a flying, invulnerable penis is willing to do for a bit of quality time with Bruce Wayne.

Including being used in ways a penis was never meant to be used.

**1\. Weaponry**

Batarangs might be his signature weapon, but Batman has always thought them troublesome, even if undeniably versatile and effective for his purposes.

First of all, their design is such that only he (and those he trains) can throw them, as they require a particular flick of the wrist at the very last moment before release, to ensure they could not be used as ranged weapons by anyone outside the Batfamily. But it also means that focusing on technique and aiming uses precious mental resources in the heat of battle.

Second, batarangs are bladed weapons, and the potential for fatal injury should they accidentally nick an artery is a consideration that has always weighed heavily on Bruce. He’s always wanted an alternative with lesser potential for causing sharp-force trauma, but he’s never found one as efficient as the batarangs.

Third, of a necessity, batarangs use custom designs, not something he can order from Amazon or various overseas companies through multiple levels of shell corporations like he does other components of his armory. Consequently, crafting them and maintaining them (cleaning and sharpening and occasionally reapplying the coating that keeps the metal a matte black) can take up a lot of his, Alfred’s, and the kids’ time. This eats into the time he could spend on investigations or training. Or, well, _other_ things.

The first time Batman throws a penis instead of a batarang in battle, it’s unintentional.

He’s up against a half-dozen of Falcone’s goons when their numbers seem to double in an instant, and he realizes he’s been led into a trap. He throws batarangs left and right, but soon runs low in supply. 

Despite being named after boomerangs, it’s not like the damn things return to him above 3.62% of the time. Seriously, they work more like shurikens. Why Dick couldn’t have named them “batikens” or “batstars” instead, he doesn’t know. But, no, these are Batarangs, for all they don’t actually boomerang.

He grabs for another batarang from his utility belt, only to find the compartment empty. He mutters half a curse, but then finds a cock thrusting itself into his gauntleted hand. Where it’s come from, he doesn’t know. It must have followed him when he left the cave that evening, or maybe it’s a new one—Clark _is_ off-planet on a mission for the Justice League, after all. And distance might make the heart grow fonder, but it also makes Kryptonian cocks generate faster.

He doesn’t have the time to check if the cock sports the identifying number they’d taken to writing in indelible ink on the shafts because there is a sudden burst of gunfire, and he has to duck for cover.

Without thinking the motion through (because thinking it through would only cause a headache he doesn’t have time for), he picks the cock up like he would a batarang and flings it at the goon who’s aimed a machine gun his way.

The penis zooms for its target.

It doesn’t hit the goon in the chest where Batman had aimed it, though. Instead, it thwaps its way over the muzzle of the gun, denting it, and then soars up to tap the thug on the head, instantly knocking him out. Then it returns to Batman’s hand, ready to be aimed at a new target.

All this is done so quickly no one but Batman knows what he used as a weapon. In fact, the only reason Batman knows what exactly happened is because he replayed it later on the cowl cam in slow motion.

Because apart from flight and invulnerability, Clark’s penises apparently also have his super speed.

What. The. Fuck.

Still, in mid-battle and completely outnumbered, Batman is not about to dismiss an effective weapon in hand simply because it happens to be a disembodied penis.

A weapon that actually _returns_ to his hand, like a batarang would do if it were actually a boomerang.

So he takes aim at another target and throws the penis at a new thug.

Together, he and the penis take down a dirty dozen of the mob’s toughest and ugliest. And he ends up with only minor bruises and scrapes for his trouble, not any of the serious injuries he’d resigned himself to once the goons had bolstered their numbers.

The next day, he gets to work on making the penises suits out of a lightweight version of the same material he uses on the Batsuit.

If they’re going to come into battle with him, invulnerable or not, they _will_ be wearing some form of protection. And they’ll have to be stealthy, or eventually someone’s going to realize what the flesh-colored blurs flying at Batman’s enemies are.

When the first few penises protest the constraint of the tactical suits by quivering and bouncing on the workbench in the Batcave after he’s suited them up, Batman only gives them a chiding look. “In battle, as in bed,” he intones, “no glove, no love.”

He snaps his own gauntlet on for added emphasis. Their protests die away, and once he pulls his other gauntlet on then cinches the utility belt around his waist, they follow him eagerly to the Batmobile. They pile in while he contemplates carving out training time with them so they work more effectively as a time.

He decides he’s never going to tell his kids about this, because he’ll be damned if Nightwing (coiner of the hated “batarangs”) is going to be given the opportunity to name his newest weapon.

At the thought, the word “batawangs” pops into Bruce’s head.

Goddamn it.

**2\. Transportation**

Once they are properly outfitted, Batman finds the penises are able to come up with creative ways to be of use to him. Like, for example, transportation.

This, it seems, is a use they’ve learned from the body they originate from. Batman has never been happy with the way Superman is wont to simply pick him up and transports him where he needs to be. In battle, it’s an expedience borne of necessity. Once or twice, Superman’s “air support” has even saved the Bat from going splat on a battlefield or from falling into a robotic insectoid swarm.

But since they’ve entered into a relationship, Clark has taken to picking Bruce up and carrying him bridal style around the Cave and the Manor and on visits to the Fortress of Solitude.

He’s even, God help Bruce, done it while they were visiting Clark’s mother in Smallville. Martha Kent had laughed at Bruce’s grumpy face and teased her son about how the billionaire was a real catch. And Bruce had not been amused, even though something light and bright had birthed in his chest at the sound of Clark and his mother’s laughter.

He tries not to think about that too much.

And, like with the batarangs, the first time he learns of the penises’ willingness to be used for transport is in a life-or-death situation. Batman is forced to use experimental suction jets from the WayneTech R&D department to scale a skyscraper in pursuit of Grodd, who has taken a child hostage and climbed its spire, King Kong-style.

Except the damn jets fail about 80 storeys up. And Batman is fairly sure he’ll be an inkblot on the pavement in a few seconds when a Kevlar-clad penis slaps itself against his palm. He grabs on, and it slows, then stops his descent, and then soars up where he is able to knock the villainous gorilla out, save the child and restore her to her mother, before disappearing into the twilight.

After that, even Batman cannot deny that Clark’s penises are much better modes of transport around Gotham’s rooftops than the grapple gun. Still, he uses the grapple when he’s with any of his partners. They already know far more about his love and sex life than he’s comfortable with; he has no desire to expose them to a physical reminder of his alien lover on a nightly basis.

Despite what _some_ people might say, he _is_ capable of maintaining _some_ boundaries, thank you very much.

It is only when he is patrolling alone that Batman will condescend to “grab peen” and soar over his city’s rooftops, cock in hand and love in his heart.

**3\. Delivery**

It starts out after his and Clark’s first big argument after they get together. He attempts the tried-and-true methods of apology: showing up at Clark’s apartment with flowers and chocolate. But the Man of Steel is madder than Bruce anticipates, and unwilling to so much as open the door, texting him to tell him that they _will_ talk things over, but that Clark needs time.

Bruce returns to Gotham, his feelings as wilted as his flowers are likely to be before Clark can forgive him.

So he gets the bright idea to use one of the penises, who have also exhibited signs of wilting flaccidity since his and Clark’s fight, to at least deliver the flowers to Clark’s apartment.

He and Clark do end up resolving things between them.

And after that, Bruce uses the cocks for all manner of special delivery to Metropolis, and they seem to relish the task, putting the X in FedEx, whether they’re passing little love notes or delivering breakfast on mornings after Clark isn’t able to spend the night in Gotham due to early Daily Planet duties (“I do hope they have washed with antibacterial soap,” Alfred has said more than once, proving even Batman’s stealth is no match for an English butler’s awareness of what goes on in his house).

A few times, the cocks have even delivered items to the Watchtower, equipment too sensitive to be sent via zeta beam transport, for example, or supplies when the transporter tubes were down that one week.

It doesn’t hurt that the penises are fast (because superspeed), so fast they can break the sound barrier—and Batman would die before he admits it, but he finds the poofy little mini-booms as they do so simply _adorable_. 

It also doesn’t hurt that they are impervious to temperature changes and do not need to breathe. 

Nor does it hurt that they possess a rather surprising amount of intelligence, enough to not only follow orders but make judgment calls in high-stress situations. 

And there has not been a situation thus far in which they have been unable to speedily locate either Superman or Batman, once commanded.

Fortunately, they are eager to please. It has occurred to him on more than one occasion that his situation is similar to that of the princesses in the Disney movies his kids love so much. Only where the princesses have woodland creatures doing their bidding, Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham, gets flying alien dicks.

Frankly, he prefers it that way.

Still, Batman constantly reminds them they are not to be spotted when making the deliveries.

Because heaven knows what kind of flak he’d get for using his lover’s detached penises to get him coffee from the Watchtower cafeteria when he runs out while on monitor duty.

Never mind that the penis uses a special carrying cozy to deliver it, one knitted by none other than Martha Kent, with a leather harness stitched by Alfred.

Bruce has never been so grateful for Martha’s unassailable aplomb and discretion in the face of alien strangeness, or Alfred’s stiff upper lip.

For in an age when carrier pigeons are scarcely in use, whoever heard of carrier penises?

**4\. Surveillance**

The cocks’ size and the stealth skills some of them exhibit (the latter of which they certainly did not learn from Big Blue) make them ideal partners for surveillance, Batman learns.

Not only are they willing and able to fly into even the Joker’s hideouts with cameras and microphones strapped to their foreskins, but they are happy to team up to give Batman multi-angled views of whoever he’s staking out. And even after months, it seems none of Gotham’s villains have spotted or even suspected the existence of Batman’s little spies.

Even better, when the Batcave grows too full with cocks, when Bruce has stopped numbering them after they hit five digits, when he is tired of redirecting the Robins away from the caverns on the eastern side of the lowest level of the Batcave, he decides it might be helpful to strap cameras to some of the penises and send them into the troposphere to keep watch against alien threats. 

Or asteroids. 

Or whatever else the great big bunghole of space decides to shit Earth’s way, Bruce figures. 

Because “aliens are coming” isn’t the sole outcry of the sidewalk prophet any longer, and neither is it something he ever thought might happen so frequently some of the League have taken to responding “Guess it must be Tuesday” whenever they receive an alert of an omega-level threat.

But it is what it is, and Bruce will use whatever tools are at his disposal to protect his home, phalluses or not.

Only the exposure to so much sunlight seems to bolster their numbers, and the time Bruce saves when Batmanning, thanks to all the different ways the dicks help him with his Mission, ends up being used rewarding said dicks for their help with his Mission.

Not that it’s not a pleasurable endeavor.

But who’d have thought Batman’s time was now split almost equally between being Bruce Wayne, being Batman, and being the willing, loving receptacle of thousands of Kryptonian cocks?

He is only grateful they are happy enough to take turns. And that Clark, for all his Kansan country boy appeal, has a wicked mind for imagining up ways to enjoy the multicocked bedroom (or Cave, or barn, or bathroom at a gala, or supply room at the Daily Planet, or any place besides Alfred’s kitchen, because everyone knows who holds the _real_ keys to the Batcave and its Kryptonite-filled safe) experience.

**5\. Defense**

After Batman starts taking the penises on patrol with him, it doesn’t take long before they start taking more of an active part in his defense.

It becomes routine for Clark’s penises to deflect bullets, to intercept the slashes of knives, to put themselves between the Bat and blunt-force trauma by way of pipe or baseball bat or crowbar.

For the most part, Bruce is okay with this. The penises, like Superman himself, are invulnerable to all these kinds of attack, and unlike his boyfriend, the Bat only very rarely comes up against opponents who carry kryptonite.

And then Darkseid comes from Apokolips to bring his hellish reign unto Earth.

And Bruce learns that detached penises are capable of selflessness, or sacrifice.

It happens like this.

Once again, it comes down to the World’s Finest to save the planet from Darkseid’s reign. Batman comes up with a plan to chase the dictator back to his hellworld, but to do it he must get within ten feet of the giant in order to fire a weapon he’s cobbled together from alien tech. Any farther, and the weapon loses both accuracy and efficacy. 

It’s not ideal, but he’s from Gotham, damn it, and if there’s anything a Gothamite knows how to do, it’s make the best out of what you’ve got.

Superman’s bright red and blue and gold are made for distraction, and that’s what Clark does—distracts Darkseid from the Bat creeping up on him.

But somehow things go wrong, and the enemy is able to split his attention between Superman and Batman before the Dark Knight can get close enough. His eyes turn red, a sure sign he’s about to use his deadly omega beams on either or both heroes.

Just before those eyes shoot death at the superheroes, a shadow falls upon them. Batman looks up to see a whole freaking wall of Clark’s penises facing off against the Apokoliptic dictator. 

He has a moment to register that he is seeing the backs of a thousand pairs of balls, stacked high and across by the hundreds. 

He even recognizes some of them, as they’d used colored cock rings and penis cages as identifying accessories in the beginning, before the cocks’ numbers swelled to the point it was simply more expedient to write their numbers on their skins in indelible ink. 

He sees the golden cock ring around Number 34, the ornate cock cage with its Victorian curlicues around Number 12, the futuristic-looking cock cage Clark had gotten Number 7. The little red cape Number 3 had taken to wearing.

And then they are gone, vaporized in an instant by Darkseid’s omega beams.

“Noooooooo!” Bruce screams, not even realizing that primal sound is coming from his own throat.

He rushes forward in the face of the enemy’s shock that he and Superman are alive, fires off the weapon that leaves Darkseid powerless the moment he gets within range. And collapses among the ashes of a thousand penises obliterated in a millisecond even as the dictator escapes via Boom Tube.

Never would the Dark Knight have imagined he’d be grieving over what some might uncharitably call intelligent flying dildos.

But the lenses of the cowl blur with his tears, and as Clark lands beside him and pulls him into his arms, Bruce _mourns_.

**+1. Condolence**

Hours upon hours after Darkseid is defeated and they have exhausted themselves with the cleanup of the battle aftermath (another one of Bruce’s mandates for the League—every able-bodied hero must assist with disaster cleanup and rebuilding efforts), Clark and Bruce return to the Cave, their journey masked by pre-dawn darkness.

Immediately, a flock of cocks surrounds them, seemingly less concerned with the decimation of their brethren than with making sure Bruce is unharmed.

The Dark Knight’s eyes, when he slips the cowl off his head (only to be booped on the cheeks and forehead by several of the cocks), are glazed with tears and tiredness. 

But he doesn’t push any of the cocks away, and in the end it’s Clark who pulls him out of the veritable cock cocoon that has formed around him in order to disarm him of his utility belt and the Batsuit, then lead him toward the showers.

Hands that can crush skulls with a spasm are gentle as they strip off the Bat’s compression under armor and boxer briefs and lead him under the hot spray. As Clark washes the sweat and grief from his lover’s skin and hair, taking care not to press against any of the scrapes and multicolored bruises painting his skin, Bruce returns the favor, although Clark’s own skin is blemish-free under the grime he’s picked up from clearing rubble from disaster sites.

A few of the cocks, the ones who seem to just _love_ water, help as well as they are able, nudging into Bruce’s shampoo-covered hair, bringing the couple sponges and later towels, helping Clark to wrap Bruce up in a fluffy black-and-gold robe Alfred has left hanging on a hook. 

Clark speeds over to grab his own blue-and-gold robe, thinking to speed back and sweep his Bat into his arms and fly him to bed.

But when he turns, he sees several more cocks have flown in and formed themselves into some kind of demented version of Aladdin’s magic carpet and eased Bruce onto them. So he has nothing to do but follow after them as Bruce is floated up the stairs of the cave.

At the door, one of the cocks flies up to submit to the security system’s holographic scan (which Bruce installed after realizing neither handprint nor retinal scanners would work in the cocks’ case), and then the thick sheet of metal slides open, and the cock is able to push at the bookcase that covers the entrance so it swings wide.

Then the procession heads to Bruce’s bedroom, and the Bat is laid upon the bed. Scarred, tired, grieving, he is nevertheless a vision against the dark Egyptian-cotton sheets, the lapels of his robe wide to expose a bruise-mottled chest. The pale dawn trickles through the french doors that lead to the balcony as the first rays of sunshine make their way over the Atlantic to touch upon Gotham’s coast and limn Bruce’s form in warm light.

If he had any artistic talent at all, Clark would paint this portrait a hundred times and hang the canvasses on every spare surface of his Fortress and his apartment.

A cock with a little black cape—Number 4, who had taken to wearing the shadowy bit of cloth around the same time the ill-fated Number 3 had started wearing the red one—settles on Bruce’s pillow, and he lets out a gasping sob and reaches for it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to it, cuddling it gently in his hands. It wiggles against his palms, the sensations as Bruce cups its balls tingle in Clark’s own groin. Completely clueless, Bruce continues to stroke down the sides of the cock with feather-light fingers in what’s no doubt meant to be a soothing, perhaps consoling, manner.

He must be consoling himself because the cock is quivering with _need_ , not grief. Clark knows this because his own cock—okay, they’re all his own cocks, but the one that’s currently _attached_ to him—is twitching from the echoes of sensation he receives from Number 4. Then Bruce wraps warm hands around the shaft and presses it to his chest, right along the sternum, and Clark can’t help it.

He groans.

Bruce looks up at him, brows furrowed.

“You do know if you had boobs you’d be giving me a tittyfuck right now, right?” Clark rasps.

Bruce’s jaw drops open in surprised realization, and his grasp on Number 4 loosens. Another cock presses its advantage, swooping in to nudge its head into his mouth.

Clark would laugh, except Bruce opens wide, accepting the cock into his mouth and curling his tongue so the tip traces around the base of the glans. The cock shivers in pleasure and pushes in. Bruce’s hand spasms around Number 4, sending electric pressure up Clark’s (attached) cock.

In hindsight, Clark’s not surprised to see the lime green cock ring around its base, identifying it as Number 16. Bruce had smirkingly adorned this cock with its viridian accessory after he’d one day remarked about possibly inviting a third person into their bed to assist with “workload management,” and the cock had promptly spent three days following Hal Jordan around the Watchtower. 

Bruce had facepalmed upon learning this cock’s idea of avoiding detection was to hide under tables and chairs. Like no one would see a fleshy penis against the stark greys and whites of the Watchtower.

Then again, Number 16 has always been a cocky (ugh) little shit, or so Bruce says. No wonder it likes Hal. Ergo, green cock ring. Bruce had even found one that glows in the dark.

Now 16 is gliding in and out of the wet cavern that is Bruce’s mouth, and sensation rockets through Clark. Emboldened, aroused, some of the other cocks fly forward. 

Two pairs of cocks press together, the ends of Bruce’s robe belt held between each pair, and pull back, unknotting the belt and letting the robe fall loose. It’s like the reverse of Cinderella’s bluebirds tying ribbons on her gown, Clark thinks dazedly.

Then the sight of Bruce’s erection standing proud, framed by black terry cloth as a quartet of cocks rush to rub against it, drives all thought from Clark’s brain. 

Bruce grasps the cock in his mouth by the balls and tugs. Obediently it eases out, and Bruce rewards it with a tantalizing scrape of teeth as it does so. His eyes are on Clark’s, and once the cockhead pulls free with a soft slurp, he licks his lips. 

“Come here,” he tells the Kryptonian, one hand curling into a come-hither motion while the other pumps slowly, languorously along Number 4’s length.

Like all his thousands of cocks, Clark cannot but obey when this man, his partner, his _mate_ , commands him so. The crowd of penises parts as Clark floats forward, tugging at the belt of his own robe and stripping it off before climbing into bed to cuddle against Bruce. 

The Gotham billionaire turns and offers a smile that holds a sweetness the world should long ago have beaten out of him. 

“I love you.” 

Bruce's voice is even, eyes steady. It’s the same tone of voice he uses to tell Clark what time it is, or say the world is round but Kansas is flat, or explain how photosynthesis works in plants and how it compares to the way Clark’s body turns sunlight into energy.

Clark gasps at the words. Bruce never says them first, and almost never unprompted. Mostly they are grumbled, often in those brief unguarded moments before slumber or after much poking and prodding on Clark’s part. But now they fall from Bruce’s lips with the simplicity by which others would say “the sky is blue” or “snow is cold.”

“And I love you,” he whispers in reply.

Bruce’s expression is solemn. “I know.” Clark realizes what he isn’t saying: Bruce knows it because Clark’s love for him is writ so strongly in every cell of his being that even his disembodied cocks would place themselves before certain destruction to save him from injury.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, Clark offers him a sheepish smile. “I just hope no cameras caught the proof of it on video.”

Bruce winces, and then chuckles. “None of the Robins would ever let me live it down.”

Clark arches an eyebrow. “And you think the League would? Especially Arrow? Or, God, Green Lantern?”

They’re both laughing as their lips meet, and humor melts into heat. Their hands traverse each other’s bodies, desperate for tangible proof that they have yet again survived what could have been the end of the world. Clark pinches a nipple, eliciting a gasp.

Of course, Number 16 once again pushes his way into Bruce’s mouth. Clark moans at the sensation, and then again as Bruce scoots just that little bit closer. As he does, numberless cocks—when had they gotten lubed up?—rubbing at Bruce’s groin make room so his own can press against Bruce’s shaft. They’re immediately enveloped in a tight grip, making both men cry out.

Bruce pulls at 16 again, and says, “I want you inside me, as much of you as I can take.” Then he nearly swallows 16 down, making the cock harden impossibly further. He continues to pump away at Number 4 until it quivers and comes all over his hand. 

Clark _whines_ at the sensory feedback that rushes through him. He rolls, taking Bruce with him so the other man is left straddling him, the cocks around their shafts vibrating between them. 

He reaches for the side drawer, pulls out a condom, and pulling out of the cocks’ embrace, rolls it over himself. He rejoins the frotting swarm, letting the other cocks lube up his own, and then pulls out again to position himself at Bruce’s entrance.

Bruce makes a wordless sound of encouragement that rumbles through his throat, and the cock in his mouth shakes as it comes and Bruce swallows.

Riding the high of that echoed orgasm, Clark pushes in. Bruce is hot and tight and _perfect_. He thrusts once, twice, thrice, and as always, the sex pulls him into a more intense feedback loop with the other cocks. 

Limp, Number 16 pulls out of Bruce’s mouth only to be replaced by another cock sliding past Bruce’s come-crusted lips even as two more cocks press themselves into Bruce’s fists. 

Between the constant pressure of sensation from the varying levels of arousal in his cocks and the look in Bruce’s eyes, which are filled with a fierce kind of possessiveness that is slowly being glazed over as his own orgasm approaches, Clark knows he’s not going to last.

He’s focused on everything all at once—the glide of cock through Bruce’s mouth as excess come from another cock dribbles down his chin, the twin pressures as Bruce pumps the cocks in his hands, the wet slide of shafts frotting against Bruce’s erection, the thrust of his own cock into Bruce’s body.

It’s a symphony of sensation that crescendos as Bruce groans around the cock filling his mouth and comes, causing the cocks frotting against him to come as well. Soon the other three cocks follow, and Clark himself is swallowed up by the arching strains of the multiple orgasms.

He sees stars from coming so hard.

Indeterminable minutes later, his brain comes back online, and he’s unsurprised to see Bruce slumped on top of him, fucked unconscious by over half a dozen cocks. He’s amused to find he’s floating nearly a foot off the bed. 

He lowers them slowly, gently, then pulls out of Bruce, who makes a sound between a whimper and a grumble at the movement, but doesn’t wake up. He divests himself of the condom, then returns to his bed, maneuvering his Bat so they’re under the covers, and snuggles down with him.

A shaft of sunlight hits Bruce’s face as he cuddles into Clark. “Turn off the light,” he grumps, the annoyance in his tone softened by exhausted slurring.

Clark smirks. “You mean the sun?”

“Yes. Off. Now.” After a moment, “Please.”

Obligingly, Number 4 and one of the other cocks fly over and draw the curtains closed. Clark wraps his arms around his sleepy Bat and follows him into sleep.

**Bonus: Tribute**

Following Darkseid’s attack, Bruce spends a week counting every last one of the penises, noting which ones have been lost. He puts a glass-covered case by the entrance to the lower eastern caverns of the Batcave. Inside it, he puts a symbolic cock cage he makes himself, with his symbol intertwined with the House of El’s lovingly worked into the metal. On the plaque at the base of the case, he engraves the number of cocks who sacrificed themselves in battle.

And he spends every waking moment that he isn’t needed as Batman or Bruce Wayne letting Clark’s cocks know how much he loves and appreciates them.

In fact, even in his sleep, he cuddles with one of them stroking his cheek, another in his ass, two more warming his hands.

“Is this how it’s going to be forever?” Clark asks after a couple of months. “I mean, I appreciate that you love _all_ of me, but the me that is, well, _me_ kind of misses you. I don’t even remember what it’s like to have sex with just the two of our cocks anymore.”

“We lost one thousand eight hundred and thirteen,” Bruce reminds him. 

“And we still have more than fifty thousand.” Clark pouts. 

“Also, we have never have sex with just the two of our cocks. There has always been at least one or two extra.”

“I know, but this is not like those memes where you brush your dog down and end up with a pile of fur that looks like you made another dog. I don’t appreciate our bed being taken over by my cocks arranged in a vaguely Clark-like shape.”

“They did that on their own while you were off-planet.”

“Well, I’m not off-planet now. Come on, Bruce. Please?”

“Hnn. I suppose it would be a fitting tribute.”

“Huh?”

“To prove that those who were lost did not sacrifice their existence for nothing.”

“Uh…”

“Come here, boy scout.”

**Author's Note:**

> On a personal note, I’ve a ton of gratitude to send BHK’s way (thus, this fic) for being so encouraging about getting over the hump of my, er, hump anxiety after I’d received some negative comments on the porn in my first SuperBat Crackporn fic. And many thanks to and much genuflection before the glorious beta duo of [Holdt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdt) and [serephent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serephent), and if you think my crackporn has mutated into “porn with feelings,” I fear their influence is entirely to blame.
> 
> There also exists in this fic a small tip-of-the-hat reference to [Romiress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/)’s hilarious little detached dick fic, _[Under the Conference Room Table](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21908479)_. Romi also provided swesome feedback for this fic, so give it a read if you like this universe.


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